


At First Blush We Second Guess

by theblindtorpedo



Category: Tintin - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Compliant, Chang is Distressed, Domestic Fluff, First Chapter Takes Place During Blue Lotus, Found Family, M/M, Pining, Second Chapter Takes Place During Tibet, Tags for Chapter Two to be Added Later, Tintin is a Gentleman
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-21
Updated: 2020-07-21
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:42:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25416349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theblindtorpedo/pseuds/theblindtorpedo
Summary: Tintin is accustomed to taking the lead in all matters in his life except one: he is not willing to adventure rashly into the intricacies of another’s heart. If Tintin and Chang could simply voice their desires they might find relief. But it is September 1931 and some things are not easily said.Chang flounders and Tintin waits.
Relationships: Tchang Tchong-Jen | Chang Chong-Chen/Tintin
Comments: 3
Kudos: 15





	At First Blush We Second Guess

**Author's Note:**

> this is part one in a planned series of canon compliant stories about Tintin's various boyfriends, but can be read on its own/as a solo piece

MONDAY

Even from his vantage point in the side doorway, the mass of bodies flooding Mr Wang’s reception room creates an aura of intense claustrophobia that scrapes at the edges of Chang’s comfort, but for now his curiosity has the upper hand. Chinese and British faces bob like buoys on a maelstrom of cameras, notepads, and hands waving for attention, for the star of the show to field their questions. Chang cannot make him out among the rabble, but piercing through the reporters’ noise is the clear Belgian accented English, occasionally dipping into his more limited Chinese. Tintin regales his tale with accuracy, keeps it straightforward, without unwieldy deviations or unnecessary dramatic embellishment. Not that he would need it after such a fiasco - impersonating a Japanese general, breaking out of prison, foiling a kidnapping plot, it would be the talk of Shanghai for weeks! Chang is certain the papers’ yellow prose will make up for Tintin’s lack of theatrics.

“I could not have done it without my good friend Chang!”

He dashes back through the hallway before they can accost him.

Late in the evening, when they have departed with their interview pads full and their cameras ready to develop, set for hours laboring over typewriters and darkrooms, Tintin finds Chang sitting on the floor, leaned up against the foot of Mr. Wang’s guest bed with his hand lightly laid upon Snowy’s head. The dog blearily opens its eyes at Tintin’s entrance and thumps its tail, but it is too comfortable and does not rise. Chang is pinned by canine weight despite a trickle of nervousness down his spine that urges him to stand up, to embrace Tintin, to speak to do something rather than wait and let Tintin lead as he always does. Tintin is flushed, curiously round spots of color on his pale cheeks, and his eyes gleam with satisfaction, ever the unflappable paragon of competence. While he has present physical evidence that Tintin is not exhausted at all, it still seems impossible to Chang after the spectacle he witnessed in Mr. Wang’s reception room. Chang reminds himself the journalists had spoken of Tintin with such ardor and awe; he is a boy of mythical status Chang could never hope to achieve and, deep down, knows he would not desire either. Tintin must be accustomed to such attention. Chang really does not know anything about Tintin at all. By all accounts he should be bowing his head to the older boy. He should be offering his services as an aide, not as a companion. He should not be sharing a bedroom with a foreigner in a stranger’s house. These thoughts have plagued him the last few hours, but Chang is struck at the ease with which such anxieties fade as Tintin approaches, relaxed and beaming.

Tintin comes to kneel beside him and places a hand on Snowy’s neck, just under Changs, so that the edges of their fingers touch and Chang hopes Tintin does not hear the hitch in his breath. They have touched many times in the last few days, clasped hands in delirious excitement, wrists wrenched in sprints down city streets, and all those times Chang had thought the spark of warmth in his chest had just been adrenaline. It had been an understandable reaction in the fit of the moment, but the last day they had not been in peril, and the feeling had followed him, rearing its head each time he looked at Tintin or each time they had touched, as they do now.

“Why did you run off?” Tintin asks at the same time Chang says: “Where did you learn Chinese?”

They both pause, sheepish in the faux pas, until Tintin throws his head back and laughs in that infectious way that Chang cannot resist and soon they are both giggling like schoolboys.

“I’m sorry,” Tintin says when they have both calmed, “I didn’t think to ask if you wanted to be included in the articles when I told them about you. It just seemed the correct thing to say since, you know, I could not have done any of it without you.”

“I do not mind if I am in the article. We were a good team.”

“Yes, we were! We _are_.” Tintin’s face turns pensive. “I’m glad I learned Chinese now although it seemed a bit of a fool’s errand at the time, all the way in Belgium.”

“Why did you learn Chinese?” Chang repeats.

“Why not? German, Arabic, Spanish, English, they’ve all served me well. French is simply not enough to unlock the mysteries of the world. There was a Chinese fellow in Brussels, a university student I think, who saw me in the library struggling through the Chinese books. He was very kind to help me practice. You don’t think my accent is too boarish? I know the men in Shanghai are used to rough accents so I cannot rely on their opinion.”

Chang rubs his free fist against his chin in contemplation. Tintin had made quite a speech, and Chang isn’t quite sure he caught all his meaning, which was a thorn in his side, for Chang did wish to compliment his new friend on his linguistic skill. 

“You speak very well,” he eventually offers, with a smile he hopes displays the genuine feeling behind the statement. Tintin does speak very well for someone with little real world experience with Chinese and Chang has already seen him improve minutely since their first meeting.

“That’s good to hear. I’ll make sure to keep up practice. But, dash it, I can’t write at all,” Tintin tuts, “Unfortunately, I don’t think I’ll have time to learn it. Busy job being a reporter and keeping up five extra languages.” A pout of disappointment, plump bottom lip pushed out, and, oh doesn’t that look queer!

“I will have to learn to write French then,” Chang says, as if it is the easiest, the most obvious answer that he should learn a whole new language to follow this boy.

“You’d really do all that for me?” Tintin’s eyes grow wide and he is looking at Chang, not with incredulity, but with a raw admiration that makes Chang’s stomach flip.

“I-” _yes, for you_ “I think it would be useful To me. To know French. I want to be a man of the world like you. I will find a teacher and write to you as soon as I can.”

“I look forward to it!”

Tintin’s hand has clasped his now, emphatic and sure, and it is like that moment after the river, the recognition of a kindred spirit, the ease of existing in a space together, the feeling of a completion in a friend.

Chang knows what he feels for Tintin is more than affection for a friend, but he assures himself he will not sully his good fortune with unrealistic desires. Tintin has not given him any indications that he can parse, although Chang would be the first to admit he is a novice in this arena. Surely, Tintin, ever observant Tintin, will realize Chang's predicament no matter how he tries to hide and if Tintin approved he would make his intentions clear, as surely as he did everything. If Tintin did not return his affections, they would continue on as they do now, and Chang has faith they would remain friends by correspondence. He can satisfy himself with that, he believes. There are only a few days to go.

* * * * *

TUESDAY

The car stutters to a halt with a rough scraping sound. Didi had been left at the Doctor’s house, the man had been near tripping over himself in gratitude for his rescue so that he agreed to tend to Mr. Wang’s son for free, promising a recovery in only a few days. Tintin makes a mental note to send a letter to Gaipajama as soon as possible. Now, he slumps back in the seat in relief. He had not been aware of his own guilt for Didi’s condition until it had lifted. Every adventure his mind was laser focused on whatever plot or story there was to uncover, calculating the motivations and movements of new faces and players, he rarely had time for emotions or, god forbid, self reflection. Still, beneath the rush of excitement, he supposes he must have cultivated concern for Didi, for the happiness on Mr. Wang’s face is a better reward than money.

Tintin considers himself fairly good at reading emotions. It is a necessary skill for a professional in the field of sussing out liars and conmen. So, it had not been lost on him the way his new friend, the boy he had saved from the river, looked at him. Tintin knew that look. He’d seen it in other boys at school when he’d carry them like brides when they fell to the field after a sport injury. He’d seen it in grown men whose heads turned at his youthful face when he entered dark bars looking for information. He wasn’t naive.

He also knew that particular want was not one lightly acted upon. Did Chang even know what he wanted? Tintin could not be sure. If he tried to lead Chang into uncharted territory would Chang thank him or resent him for stoking a fire so many men preferred to keep hidden. Even if Chang did not resist that part of himself, if Chang sincerely wished to embrace Tintin as men and women do, what would be the point as Tintin would be off before the week was out. He was not a cruel person. No, Tintin dared not indulge with the knowledge that all he really could offer Chang was sporadic letters. In the past he had a sprinkling of love affairs, dalliances borne of mutual understanding they would never see each other again. With Chang, even with their short time spent together Tintin knew he could not bear that. He could scarcely bear the thought that they would be parted in mere days’ time. So, no matter what Chang wanted, Tintin would not press him for it. Better to stay as they were.

Then, there he was: the object of his rumination ran out of the house, fleet and shod in black slippers, Mrs. Wang following in slower, but no less joyous enthusiasm. Mr. Wang held her close, delivered the good news and the poor woman gasped. Tintin let’s them have their private moment in favor of taking Chang’s hand. 

“I have something for you,” Tintin says as the third passenger exited the vehicle. “We never did get that picture taken. I think we should have a real nice one. Just of us. This man can make two copies.”

“I think I’d like that very much.”

Chang tilts his head up and Tintin realizes the boy wants to kiss him. They won’t, not with the Wangs a few feet away. Perhaps even if they were alone nothing would happen, for Chang’s brow creases in confusion, a primal, internal distress streaking across his gaunt features, before they are interrupted by the photographer and Tintin pulls him inside.

* * * * *

WEDNESDAY AND THURSDAY

It is harder than Chang had anticipated. 

Chang dithers as he watches Tintin do his morning exercises. He does not want to stare, but Tintin is well muscled underneath his clothes. Chang would very much like to touch the smooth expanse of skin presented as Tintin twists and jumps. And a headstand! Remarkable! Tintin has offered to teach him his routine and he does as best he can, muscles contort and stretch painfully, until he is left a pile of jelly afterwards. Nothing a hot bath cannot soothe. The bath also serves to mollify the other urges that had surfaced like mischievous dragons.

There is so much time to simply spend in companionship with Tintin who talks to him like Chang is the most interesting boy in the world. They amble around the house, tender grass itching at their ankles, and Tintin regales him of his previous adventures and asks his opinions with full seriousness. Chang in turn spins legends and histories that make Tintin gasp and clap. Chang revels in it. There is nowhere he needs to be and no work demanding to be done. He does work though, cleans the house for the Wangs, as he feels it is the least he can do to repay them for letting him stay as long as he has. Between chores he shows Tintin some Chinese writing: a few characters so he can at least read basic signs and Chang’s name. Tintin likes that best. Unprompted he writes Chang’s name over and over, hand becoming more sure with each stroke until there are pages upon pages, until his pale arm is stained with shadows of ink like the surface of the moon. This routine continues for two more days.

The evening meal has finished and Chang is the first to stand, bows his head, and announces: “I thank you again for all the kindness you have shown me.” He keeps his head bowed, hoping they cannot see the tears that burgeon at the edges of his eyes. “I will be going now. I do not wish to impose another night. I will see you at the docks in the morning, Tintin.”

“You can’t go!” Hands slap against the table and the porcelain-ware rattles in protest. Chang raises his head weakly. Tintin is defiant and trembling. 

“That’s not for you to say,” Chang whispers, but the words still echo enough for the whole room to hear. He squeezes his eyes shut, this is all too much. Briefly he regrets not stealing away in the night. Yet, as incensed as Tintin is now, Chang knows that alternate would upset the Belgian even more. Chang did not wish to cause Tintin pain. Even if Tintin himself caused him pain and pleasure in equal measure by his existence.

“Where would you go?” Tintin is wringing his hands now. “You’re an orphan!”

“Tintin, I think it is time to calm down. We have never actually asked Chang what he wants.”

“Yes, but I figured he must have realized by now!”

“Realized what?” Chang asks.

“That we would very much like to adopt you.” Mr. Wang’s smile is gentle underneath the white crown of his beard. “You are an industrious and conscientious boy. Everything we could ask for in a son.”

“Am . . . am I dreaming?” Chang can feel the tears dripping down his face in full now and then he knows it absolutely must be a dream for his arms are filled with jubilant Tintin who is crowing triumphantly against his ear.

“Not dreaming, dear Chang! You’re going to have a family again!” 

Chang lets himself sob fully then, burying his face into the crook of Tintin’s neck and grasping at his back as he lets himself be rocked back and forth. There is an absolute rightness to it. He will be a good son to Mr. and Mrs. Wang who he has come to love already. This place, with its red beams and blue walls and wide veranda, will be his home.

The only thing that would make it perfect was if Tintin could stay and he could be held like this every night.

* * * * *

THURSDAY NIGHT

“Are you still awake?” Tintin rolls over and receives the answer to his question in how Chang’s eyes glisten.

“Did I awaken you? I was just thinking.” Chang props himself up to a sitting position, runs a hand through his hair, tossing reflected moonbeams onto the cushions. Tintin knows Chang’s hair is sleek like a girl’s. Tintin would like to touch it one last time. His friend turns and gazes at him. The adoration written there sends blood rushing to Tintin’s face in a blush that he hopes is hidden by the night.

He waits with bated breath. He thinks Chang might reach out and beg sweetly for him. Tintin would give, but he will not take. Not from someone younger than he who likely has very little experience, the tender sprouts of his own desire be damned. Tintin has tamped down desires many times. He figures the garden of his heart, with his continual absence, is not fit to flourish. Still, he wishes Chang might make a move, do something he cannot deny. He yearns for it.

Chang reaches underneath the bed, pulls out the photo of the two of them that had been delivered that day. Tintin has his arm protectively around Chang’s shoulders; Chang is leaning into his side, Snowy perched at their feet. Chang runs a thumb over the edge and traces Tintin’s sepia toned face with the finger of his other hand.

“I will keep it here close to me. It will be safe underneath this bed. Do you mind if I do that?”

“I think I’d enjoy the thought of being close to you every night.”

“Good.”

**Author's Note:**

> Comments always appreciated! They give me inspiration to write more.
> 
> Follow me on [Tumblr](www.augustinremi.tumblr.com) or [Twitter](www.twitter.com/seccotines).
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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